“I know, and I’m sorry. It’s been busy." He was glad that the waiter chose just that moment to come pour their wine, providing a welcome diversion while he ordered his thoughts. When he looked back at Francesca, her face was slightly drawn, the embryonic crow’s feet around her eyes showing, but her blue eyes shining as always. He closed his hand around hers and took a chance on his intuition.
“You’ve been dreaming.” His eyes met hers across the table, and she sighed as her whole body slumped a little. She looked away briefly, then met his gaze straight and strong.
“Only once. It may be nothing… when it’s only once." But her tone of voice said she knew better.
Geraint tried to hide his shudder as he thought of the last time they’d been together and she’d awakened with the old nightmare. He’d never heard anyone scream like that before. They’d been lovers then, lying beside one another. Though her terror had set his own heart to pounding violently, he’d shushed and tried to calm and comfort her. Now he smiled as reassuringly as he could. She wanted that, and she fumbled the hologram pad back into her bag.
“There’s another reason." She looked mischievous. “What do you know about Sir Jonathan Ambrose?”
Geraint puckered his tips as a sensation of relief passed through his body, relaxing the tension he’d begun to feel. This was familiar territory. ‘‘He’s an absolute dweeb, my dear. Ancient noble heritage, pots of money, degree from Oxford, and absolutely no chin at all. He’d be as much use in bed as a Fuchi Sensation without the batteries. Why do you have such appalling taste in men?”